


Make Him Pay

by orphan_account



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Action, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Breaking and Entering, Dark Comedy, Destruction of Private Property, Fights, Gay Subtext, Gen, If you look closely, Mild Language, Revenge, Shout-outs, Suspense, Vomiting, error 404 sanity not found, is the title a homestuck reference? maybe, this fic is one big fight scene, underwater fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Be careful what you wish for, especially when you are bored. A relatively uneventful after-midnight scene at Alistair's home gets flipped entirely upside-down when a familiar stranger gets his revenge fantasy on.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	Make Him Pay

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on writing hiatus for a little bit. Surprise.
> 
> This is a violent story. It is also, hopefully, funny. If you don't like it, don't read it.  
> It contains the following:  
> \- Blood and waterfowl getting beat up.  
> \- Some vomit for good measure.  
> \- Mild swearing that would make Mickey Mouse faint.  
> \- Somewhat homoerotic subtext. Kind of.  
> \- References to popular media. Deal with it.  
> \- About five or more Google Document pages worth of nearly continuous fighting.  
> \- Underwater fight sequence.  
> \- Expensive items getting destroyed.
> 
> And more.
> 
> I wholeheartedly accept comments and constructive criticism. This fanfic might get edited if possible.

Boredom took hold of Alistair Boorswan’s mind, reaching into his bones and making him go stir-crazy.

He lived in a multimillion-dollar house with an outdoor pool, multiple HD TVs, and various collectibles gathered from an auction where no one else dared to bid more than ten thousand dollars. 

Why was a swan who had everything to his name and more, lounging at the couch with reckless abandon, staring up at a patterned ceiling, and taking a swig of beer?

Any well-meaning socialite or influential person would have fainted at the sight of the dump that was his mansion, you had to see it to believe it. 

He never hired maids to do house-cleaning and weeds overgrew his garden. The only consistently maintained part of the house was the pool. Swimming was his entire life, besides being a movie director. He should have been a professional swimmer.

Could he take up this time—he glanced at the digital clock, beeping 3:14 AM—to write out some script ideas?

Watch the news and see how that young upstart calling himself Darkwing Duck is doing? Sleep?

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Swans had natural black markings around their faces, but he had the extra blessing of being an insomniac, giving away to eye bags upon these dark circles. Sleep... sheep. She...

His eyelids fluttered. Sleep.

Alistair almost dozed off for the first time in months, when a loud bang came from the front door. Now properly awake, eyes wider than physically possible, he gulped. Fear slunk its icy fingers over his scalp as he watched the door. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. The intricately carved wood-and-painted glass door looked about ready to collapse and splinter. That door alone cost thousands of dollars.

Should he open it? 

Was it the police?

An angry producer? 

Girl scouts?

Sweat trickled down his brow as he imagined the next scenario: being ambushed by a group of radicals who planned to brainwash and torture him, making him their tool for world domination. That moment never came, however, because his adrenaline shot up so high that he threw the front door wide open.

Nothing.

He saw nothing but a posh suburban neighborhood and an inky black sky painted over with dazzling dots of white. The overhanging moon seemed to judge Alistair’s entire existence. No one else was there. Alone. A gentle breeze chilled his feathers.

If some cheeky kid was playing a prank on him, he’d have a stern talking to with their mother. And possibly a lawsuit.

A loud clattering of objects from behind him made him freeze on the spot. He gulped again, the thick glob of spit traveling down his throat as his teeth began to chatter with fear.

Taking deep breaths, one, two, three, turning his head, one, two, three, he turned to see nothing but the foyer leading to his messy living room. Slower than a speeding snail, he took several steps back to the living area. 

One...

Two...

“Yah!” 

Alistair fell backward and scrambled away as the ominous figure descended upon him with frightening speed and a cackling laugh that tingled his spine with terror.

“What do you want! Don’t take my stuff! I’m just a director!” Alistair already sobbed, in an embarrassing display of cowardice that he’d deny ever happened in the future. 

The attacker pushed the front door shut, and Alistair could feel his heart and stomach contents forcing their way up to his beak.

“I want revenge, Boorswan!” The figure snarled. In the choking darkness, he couldn’t see what his mysterious assailant looked like, but he could smell him. And, good lord, did he smell horrible. 

“Howdoyouknowmy---” Alistair stopped himself when he realized, he’s a director. Everybody knows his name. Directed by Alistair Boorswan.

“Don’t be scared!” The obscured figure sang, “Here! I’ll turn the lights on so you can  _ see _ !”

He spat out the last syllable with the most hatred Alistair had ever heard in a voice. 

The room flooded with bright, artificial light, and Alistair’s eyes shrank into their sockets, screwing them shut them with a yelp. It took him several seconds to re-orient himself, squinting and half-blind.

“Look at me, Boorswan, look what you did!”

Stars faded from his vision, his pupils adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light. Alistair blinked and looked up at his attacker. From his webbed orange feet to his mustard-yellow coat, black cape to the oversized, blood-red hat.

This guy had terrible fashion sense.

“Wait...Is that a Carl Barks original?” The walking wardrobe malfunction pointed to a painting that hung on his wall. “How in the world did you get that?!”

“I paid for it,” Alistair stammered.

“Yeah? Do you know how much these things cost?”

  
“I’m a movie director.”

He rolled his eyes, walking closer to Alistair with a ludicrous amount of swagger.

“Don’t you remember me?”

“What?” Alistair deadpanned.

“What do you mean what?!” the masked maniac yelled, stomping over to Alistair. “You know who I am!”

“The Hamburglar?!” Alistair whimpered.

“You idiot!” he pulled Alistair up by the collar. “Who else do I look like?!”

Alistair made a few noises that sounded like honks and whimpers, finding himself unable to form a coherent answer to the attacker’s sudden trivia question.

The caped criminal sighed, flinging Alistair back to the floor as if he were a ragdoll. He reached for the remote and  _ click _ went the thousand-dollar HD TV, flashing open to a news program with the volume too high for either’s comfort.

“Darkwing: First Darkness,” he continued, tossing the remote away without a care. “Now he thinks he’s the real deal. And you know whose fault that was?”

Darkwing Duck did not happen to be on the newsreel. In his place, a news reporter discussed Scrooge McDuck’s constant disappearances, coming back with implausible treasures, and putting the lives of four children in grave danger.

“Scrooge?” Alistair squinted.

Wait.

It took him a second to put two and two together and realized why this guy brought up his latest failure. The hat, the cape, the  _ voice _ ...

Only the colors were different.

“You!” Alistair bolted upwards, scrambling to find a beer can or paperweight to defend himself with

“Finally!” The other duck beamed, showing a bill full of sharp, yellow teeth that were ripe for tearing into Alistair’s flesh. “It was your fault!”

“Jim Starling?”

“No. You killed Jim,” he monotoned. “First you didn’t consider him a role. Then you find a replacement, and then you let old Jimmy die.”

“Sorry?” Alistair backed up against the nearest wall, a sheepish smile on his face in a pathetic attempt to placate Jim.

“Sorry won’t do it, Boorswan!” Jim withdrew a dagger from his pocket, stabbing it into the wall, a few centimeters too close to Alistair’s throat.

The swan gulped as the metal dagger went further and further into the wall, ruining the expensive wallpapering. As Jim’s beak almost touched his, Alistair caught a whiff of that horrid stench.

Pungent, like if you mixed in rotten eggs with raw sewage and vomit. A hint of bitterness, and feathers that had not been washed in months.

Alistair’s mind went fuzzy, going cross-eyed from the stench. It overpowered his nostrils, and there was no escape he could find.

“Look at me,” Jim hissed. “Look.”

Alistair tried to look away, but Jim forced his head back to stare into the other’s eyes.

Jim took off his hat and mask. Alistair whimpered, his knees feeling like putty as he succumbed to Jim’s whims.

Everything about Jim looked atrocious, but it was his eyes that frightened Alistair most of all.

They seemed to glow under the artificial light, blue and green swirls swimming in an ocean of bloodshot white, crusted over with dried tears and gunk, sunken deep into his skull. Either Alistair was hallucinating, or he actually saw a maggot crawl from Jim’s left nostril.

“See what happens when you kill somebody?” He continued. “They rot and decay, and they look like this.  _ This _ ... Is Jim Starling.”

Alistair groaned.

“And this...” Jim placed his hat and mask back on, “Is Negaduck.”

“Negawhat?” Alistair sputtered.

“Nega—You know.” Negaduck yanked the dagger out of the wall and pointed it at Alistair’s throat.

“I have a few words for you, Boorswan.” He growled. “Four pretty little words.”

Pause. The clock read 4:04 AM. More pause.

“ _ You ruined my life! _ ” Negaduck screamed into his face, gripping him by the collar in one hand and brandishing the dagger in the other. “ _ Look at me, you hack! Look at me!” _

Alistair’s eyes darted between the dagger and Negaduck’s face, sweating as his heart attempted to break out of its ribcage jail.

A flash of pain penetrated through his shoulder. Agonized nerves traveled their way from his brain to left shoulder as Negaduck stabbed the dagger in, cutting away at the skin and muscle. Blood vessels burst and spilled their contents over his arm, warm and sticky.

Once Negaduck wrung the bloody dagger from the flesh, Alistair dropped to the ground like a brick, gasping from the sudden injury. Stars and swirls came in and out of his vision, blood pressure dropping and nausea rising in his stomach as he glanced up at Negaduck.

“You know, you’re the person I hate second-most.”

Alistair didn’t have to guess who the first was.

Negaduck grinned, baring his sharp, yellow teeth in all their rotted glory. He swung the dagger around like a fairy with her wand, blood being spattered over the ground. 

Alistair attempted to get back up, when Negaduck delivered a sharp kick to his stomach, enough to make him retch, hot bile bubbling up in his throat.

“I’m not done, love.” Negaduck cooed. He picked Alistar by the throat and tossed him over the mahogany coffee table, sending books, glass, and beer cans across the room. 

Alistair coughed up what he was sure was blood, lying on his side over the table, bones creaking and shifting, his nerves running a marathon to and from his brain and wounds.

Negaduck loomed over him, his raggedy frame with those garish clothes obscuring one light and shadowing over Alistair. The swan looked up at his attacker, mumbling, “No...”

“Yes,” Negaduck smiled. He planted a kiss on Alistair’s forehead after turning him to his back. The swan choked on his own bile. Negaduck plopped onto the couch, grabbing an already opened beer can.

“How much money do you make from your movies?” He asked, taking a sip of stolen beer. 

“Wow, this stuff’s strong.” Negaduck’s bill wrinkled in surprise. He checked the bottle. “Hmm. Sapporo beer. From Japan. Fancy.”

“Ah...” Alistair choked, turning back to his side and facing Negaduck. “I... ack...” He vomited onto the table, panting in ragged, heaving gasps. 

“That much, huh?” Negaduck raised an eyebrow. 

Although his head swam like an Olympic swimmer going for gold, he was in agonizing pain and was both terrified and nauseous, Alistair felt a new emotion bubble from the bottom of his stomach.

A fire of hatred and disbelief, the shame of being thrown around and beat up in his own home, surging through his body.

He glared into Negaduck’s mad, hypnotizing eyes, and leaped. The couch toppled over as the two wrestled with each other in a flurry of punches and kicks. 

Alistair no longer cared if he felt any more pain, or if he was about to die in his house. Negaduck was getting  _ out of here _ .

The swan wrapped one hand around Negaduck’s neck and pummeled him in the face with the other, splitting his bill and letting blood spray.

Negaduck grinned with bloody teeth and spat in his face. Alistair wiped the blood from his face and choked Negaduck, thumbs squeezing at his Adam’s Apple.

“You’re turning me on, you know that?” Negaduck giggled, catching Alistair off guard. He used this to kick the swan under his sensitive ribcage and roll out of harm’s way.

Rubbing at his neck and checking for blood, Negaduck wheezed. He set his eyes on a heavy-looking vase and ran for it. 

Hauling it up, he tossed it towards Alistair, who dodged it in time and made another leap for him. 

Negaduck laughed, delivering a blow to the swan’s beak, almost dislocating his jaw, and adding to the brawl with more punches, martial-style kicks to the stomach before slamming him onto the ground, onto the sharp remains of a vase that must have been expensive to acquire.

They reached the kitchen; this was both where Alistair could use something to his advantage and a new playground for Negaduck. And speaking of playgrounds, the masked duck snooped into Alistair’s fridge, squealing with glee like a little kid in a candy shop. 

  
“Ooh! You have a lot in here! All of it going to waste!” Negaduck licked his lips. “I haven’t eaten in a  _ week! _ ”

“A week?” Alistair cringed as he watched Negaduck stuff the leftover Croque Madame into his bill.

“I was a star,” Negaduck burped and wiped the delicious remains off his bill. “I was doing a hell of a good job. Darkwing Duck was mine...” He winked at Alistair.

“I didn’t know you!” Alistair retorted, grabbing at the nearest kitchen utensil he could use as a weapon.

“What?!” Negaduck snapped. 

Alistair aimed a rolling pin at Negaduck.

They glared at each other, an eventful pause as they stood in the kitchen, blood and vomit dripping to the ground. Negaduck left the fridge open.

“What are you gonna do with that, huh?!” Negaduck sneered.

Alistair gripped the rolling pin with both hands and attempted to slam it against Negaduck’s head, missing by a few inches, and Negaduck returned with an uppercut to his chest. Negaduck reached for a saucepan and began blocking Alistair’s attacks with his rolling pin.

The two went at it, hitting at each other with their improvised kitchen utensil weapons as they backed further and further into the living room again. Alistair finished with a kick to Negaduck’s chest, sending him to the ground. 

Negaduck cackled at him, jumping back up.

“Come on!” Alistair spat, his voice raspy from under-use and pain. 

Negaduck gripped the saucepan, swinging it and meeting with Alistair’s rolling pin. The two shared glares again, readying their utensils. 

There was a knock on the door.

“What?!” Alistair gasped. “Who’s gonna get that?!”

“I’ll get it!” Negaduck hissed, pushing him out of the way. Alistair scrambled, trying to pull Negaduck from the door handle.

“Let me go! Let me go, you bastard!” Negaduck screeched, delivering another punch to Alistair’s face.

The door swung open.

A mailman, clueless to everything that transpired and exhausted from delivering packages at such an early time, gawked as the swan and duck were locked in combat.

“Uh.”

“Leave.” Negaduck let out a low hiss.

“Okay.” 

The mailman dropped the box and fled, sure to tell his boss a story he would never believe.

Negaduck slammed the door and locked it. Alistair cracked the rolling pin over Negaduck’s head, but the duck would not budge; instead, he took the box and threw it at Alistair’s head, making a resounding thud as he collapsed to the floor.

Heaving with wheezing gasps, Negaduck looked over Alistair’s prone, battered body. He licked his lips and smiled, dragging him out of the living room, and to the next scene of his ultra-violent film.

A spray of chilly water splashed into Alistair’s face. Gasping as his eyes shot open, a fresh wave of nausea poured over him. He glanced up to see Negaduck, with the detachable showerhead in a bloody hand, grinning.

_ Damn it _ , thought Alistair. He tried to see what he could use in a bathroom as a weapon—it was much more difficult than in the kitchen, and much less room to fight bare-handed too.

Negaduck sprayed him with the showerhead again. “Hey.”

Alistair spat a glob of blood and saliva. “What was in that box?”

Negaduck shrugged and kicked him in the face. “Come on, you were just getting good.” 

He grabbed a bottle of shampoo. “Russian Amber Imperial shampoo? You really like to flaunt your wealth, don’t you?”

“One... second...” Alistair inhaled, scrabbling back up to no avail as the slippery walls and floor prevented him from finding his footing.

“Pathetic.” Negaduck hissed. “Maybe I hit you too hard.”

“No!” Alistair kicked Negaduck below the knees and dodged as he crumpled over in the shower. Crawling on fours, he tried to make his escape to the bedroom when Negaduck came back up and dragged him by the legs.

Alistair took hold of the bathroom mat and tossed it Negaduck’s way, finding himself free and crashing into the bedroom.

Negaduck wasn’t far behind. 

The swan slid under the mattress of his bed, wincing as carpeted flooring chafed his wounds and the tightness of the gap prevented him from taking deep breaths.

He watched as Negaduck’s feet came into view through the gap.

“Hide and seek?” Negaduck scoffed. Alistair continued to hold his breath, his heart thumping against his chest. 

“Hey, is that a Daffy Duck action figure?”

Those webbed feet disappeared from his sight, giving Alistair relief and some room to breathe. After a minute or two, he glimpsed beyond the gap and attempted to crawl out. 

Taking a deep breath, his legs trembled as he attempted to stand up. Bones cracked and ached through the pain, he stumbled towards the closet.

His entire body wracked with injuries and his nerves frayed to Hell and back, he slumped against the mirror to his closet, eyelids growing heavy. He looked at his reflection, seeing the extent of damage done to his face and body. 

Eyes swollen and red because of bruising, a dislocated jaw, blood running from his nose, cracked teeth, and the gaping stab wound in his shoulder.

What a mess.

He let out a sigh that fogged up the mirror. Wiping the condensation off, he adjusted to the right and spotted his bed.

Negaduck was on his bed.

“Surprise.” 

Alistair yelped, adrenaline kicking into gear as he went into a fighting stance.

“That’s more like it,” Negaduck hopped off the bed. 

“W-why?” Alistair gasped.

“Revenge.” Negaduck pushed Alistair back against the mirror. “And practice. What I’m doing to you when I do it to that replacement... It’ll be a hundred times worse.”

Alistair kicked Negaduck in the stomach using his knee and escaped. The only place left to go was the pool and garden. Negaduck jumped on top of him before he could retreat, sending both flying through the glass doors and tumbling over until they were far too close to the edge of the pool for comfort. Sharp edges of broken glass stabbed and slashed the two, leaving a mess of blood onto the tiled floor.

“Fuck!” Negaduck hissed under his breath.

Alistair flipped around, twisting his body so Negaduck would fall into the water, and afterward leaping into the pool himself. He pushed the duck further down the pool, wrestling with him as they both held their breaths. Negaduck grabbed onto Alistair’s clothes, trying to tear them off.

Alistair punched him in the eye, and Negaduck retaliated with a hit to his chest. Alistair swam to the top, gasping for breath, his feathers chilled by the combination of cold water and wind. 

Dawn was arriving.

There was no time to admire the golden sky as Negaduck grabbed Alistair by his tail and pulled him back underwater. 

They threw punches and kicks, their eyes blinded by water and wounds stinging in the chlorine-infused water. Negaduck took the dagger from his pocket and made a move for Alistair’s throat, who blocked the blade with his hand. 

“Wait---wait. One second.” Negaduck held up a finger, panting. “One.”

“What?” Alistair tilted his head.

“Are those magnolias?” Negaduck pointed over at the garden. “I hate magnolias.”

Blood mingled with the water. 

Any gasps for breath above water resulted in being pulled down. Vicious screams and repeated blows to the face continued. Neighbors dared not to check in on the situation.

Alistair leaped out of the water again, climbing back to land. Negaduck followed, stabbing him in the leg and attempting to pull him underwater again. The pain was much the same as before, only the added effect of chlorinated water and fear of drowning intensified it. He was feeling dizzy from blood loss, watching as his pool turned red.

Now Negaduck was the one to climb to land, pulling Alistair up with him. The swan could have thanked anybody else, but he knew Negaduck had only sinister intent.

Slammed onto the ground, Alistair found himself on his back, Negaduck above him with a dagger in hand, bringing it down as he attempted to stab him, but Alistair dodged each strike. Bleeding and freezing, soaking, Alistair’s last resort was to reach for the pool chairs, trying to throw each one at Negaduck to no avail.

More questions raced through Alistair’s scrambled mind as he continued to run away from Negaduck, taking chase.

Where did everything go wrong?

Why didn’t he just go to sleep? 

When will this stop?

What  _ was _ in that box?

They reached the edge of the house where Alistair collapsed, hitting the pavement and causing a car to swerve around him.

Negaduck stepped over the bushes, his red-and-yellow scheme was even more obnoxious in the morning light. No neighbors were in sight, so Negaduck saw fit to carry the swan back inside.

  
  


Negaduck took off his hat and mask, surveying the entire house. Everything was trashed, misplaced, covered in various bodily fluids. He considered nothing here to be valuable enough to sell anymore. Alistair lay on the couch. Negaduck observed him.

He gazed at the swan’s swollen facial features and blood trickling from his mouth and nostrils. There were stab wounds in his shoulder and leg, and many bruises littered his body. 

Traces of vomit stained his expensive coat, and they’d spilled so much blood that it tinged his feathers red. His breaths came out heavy and ragged, almost choking.

Alistair had put up a good fight, Negaduck had to admit. It was fun. He turned to find his reflection in a mirror. Strolling towards it, he squinted, a smile forming on his face.

He wasn’t pretty to look at, either. Similar swollen features, blood trailing down his nostrils and mouth, et cetera. The blood blended in well with his red turtleneck. His eyes were that usual blue-green shade, bloodshot, and exhausted. Sunken deep in his skull.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but beyond the bloodstains, his feathers had taken on an almost green tint mingling with his jaundiced yellow. He licked his lips and wiped the blood off his nostrils. 

Alistair made a choking noise and Negaduck hissed. Although death would be glorious, he would not let Alistair have the mercy of that. He reached for the phone and dialed emergency services. 

Why Alistair hadn’t called for help in the first place, he was both confused about and grateful for.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Numb. A faint tingling sensation spread throughout Alistair’s body as he woke up, stars and dots dissipating from his eyes. White light filled his weary vision, eyelids struggling to stay open through fatigue. Strangely pleasant hums were all he could hear. The events of this morning were but a far-off nightmare to him.

The first thing he felt was his throbbing face, raw and bruised. He raised a hand to his cheek, a motion that was enough to send a new wave of pain and nausea throughout his body.

The first thing he saw was a wristband, one of those impossible-to-remove types with your name and patient number on it. Above that, an intravenous needle inserted into the middle of his hand. Two, actually: One for saline and another for blood transfusion.

The only thing worse than being dead was being in a hospital. Negaduck must have sent him here. Did that madman have a conscience after all?

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to do anything but lay immobile in a bed between a stiff mattress and a scratchy blanket, doing nothing but listening to your heart monitor beep. Where were the nurses?

He could feel the bandages wrapped around his limbs and face, itching at his sore, wounded skin. More pain started coming back to him, and he remembered everything that happened this morning with vivid detail.

Why me? He thought. Why me?

Perhaps Negaduck---Jim---Negaduck was right. He deserved this for not acknowledging the original Darkwing Duck in the first place. That was his just desserts. He had what was coming to him.

As he sighed, his chest ached, his throat and lungs burned. He could barely sit up, his head was too heavy as if his skull were made of lead. His brain struggled to operate as one whole being, scrambled up, and only sending pain signals.

He managed to turn his heavy head to one side where he saw a heart monitor beep steadily, the green line going up, down, up and down rhythmically to the tune of his heart. There was a notecard on the table next to the equipment. Who sent it?

Well, duh, he thought to himself. Negaduck must have thought it funny to send him a get-well-soon card when he  _ did this in the first place _ .

With an arm that felt every bit as heavy as his head did, shivering and his nerves signaling even more pain, he reached for the card. He took a deep breath as best as he could and brought it close to his eyes.

_ That was fun. _

_ Love, _

_ Negaduck. _

The handwriting was strangely neat for somebody like Negaduck, the only other way Alistair could tell it was his handwriting, were the bloody fingerprints forming a heart at the lower right corner. Alistair sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped the card to the ground, letting his hand go limp.

He never did find out what was in that box.

**Author's Note:**

> There are many little details and references to various media scattered throughout. If you can name the ones that aren't glaringly obvious, you get a cookie.
> 
> Again, please be sure to comment. The best way I can improve my writing is through criticism.


End file.
